The Day She Cradled Me Page 2

  ‘Was it there?’ I ask finally.

  ‘Was what there?’

  ‘The money.’

  Her mouth puckers like a tom cat’s rear end as she contemplates the question. ‘A letter came.’

  Thank goodness. Baby’s father has made his first payment, true to his word. I am so relieved I could hug her.

  ‘Be a good girl, Esther, and go back and get the order cashed.’

  The corners of her mouth lift. ‘There ain’t no order.’

  ‘Esther, you just said it was there.’

  ‘What I said was there was a letter. I said nothing about no order.’

  I am growing tired of her games. ‘What have you done with it?’

  ‘I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘Show it me.’ If I didn’t need this money quite so desperately, I would match her thorny tongue.

  She withdraws a letter all right, but it isn’t from Baby’s father. I want to slap her, but I know that would do the situation no good, so instead I snatch the letter and go in search of my spectacles. They’re not on the table or the window ledge, and I can’t see properly to find them. Esther will have to read it for me.

  I take Baby and pass the letter back to Esther, ignoring the snigger.

  ‘It is from the Hornsby woman,’ she says, and then stops.

  ‘Yes? Carry on.’

  ‘Wants to meet this coming Thursday.’

  ‘Where, Esther?’

  ‘I am getting to it. Milburn. She’s taking the Express from Dunedin.’

  This is excellent news indeed — especially if she pays up front. ‘Anything more?’

  ‘She says to bring a receipt.’

  The two girls run in, and Punch climbs up onto my knee, pushing Baby to one side. The boys soon follow and the room is full. I wonder sometimes at how many children I have kept in this tiny house, for now it seems to overflow with only these few.

  I shall ask the woman at Gore if she can manage the baby Hornsby as well as the child Carter; if not, there are one or two other women in Gore and another in Mataura who might take her in. I expect that for the small amount of commission I’ll get, the whole exercise is hardly going to be worth my effort. Except, truth be told, money is not the only reason for my collecting these children — I yearn to be out of this house again and into a bit of comfort for a spell.

  Two babies to place and no money with which to do it.

  Baby wails as if in response to my thoughts. ‘Not you, little one, not you,’ I coo, wrapping the blanket around him more tightly and kissing the top of his head. He is just born, yet already I love him as though he were my own. ‘You are certainly not going anywhere.’

  Unless I am unable to get the payment from his father. Then it will be an utterly different story.

  Early Monday morning and already I know I am going to be late.

  ‘Please, Dean,’ I say, struggling to look as though I am listening intently to my husband when I know I shall have reddened cheeks and untidy hair for my journey if I have to run the five miles to the station. ‘You will wake the children.’

  It has already gone time I had planned to leave, and to wake them now would ruin things entirely. It occurs to me that this may be his plan, and I look to Esther, who is cradling Baby, for help — only to find she is smirking. I can see now why he is so bothered. The vixen has been putting ideas into his head.

  ‘Constable Rasmussen has been asking again how many children you got,’ he says. ‘I tell him, just the same as before.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have told him anything, Dean.’

  ‘He said with the new law he can have you arrested for that baby.’

  ‘You said it was here?’ Sometimes I cannot believe his stupidity.

  ‘He says he knows about it and it’s against the law if you don’t get the place registered.’

  I take a deep breath as he rants about how he has been forced to make excuses to the constable about my comings and goings. I have not noticed before how thin Dean’s hair is getting, how the lines beneath his eyes are showing his age. Finally he tells me I am forbidden to go today and get more children. It would be almost funny if I were not losing time from it.

  ‘We need the money. I have already said as much.’

  ‘Take in laundry. Mrs Porteous does.’

  I am aware Esther is enjoying herself and if this carries on much longer I shall miss the train altogether, even if I run myself breathless. Outside, the hens have woken and are heading for the flower garden. I send Esther out to shoo them away, though there is little damage they can do in its current state. I watch as she scurries after them clutching Baby; the cockerel struts about wildly like a mad man losing control of his brood. Not unlike my husband.

  ‘Dean,’ I try to say patiently, for we have had this conversation more times than I care to remember. ‘How often can I tell you, I am not breaking any law unless the children are brought to live here? Baby was born here, so he doesn’t matter. Rasmussen is just bluffing because he sees you as a weak —’ I stop quickly — ‘as someone who he believes will uphold the law, and who will tell him what he wants to hear. You can’t hold him to his word — he is more slippery than ice, that man — and what’s more he has no right to be questioning you in public. If I hadn’t put my trust in him in the first place, things would have been far better for it.’

  He is quiet. Esther comes back in, puffing. I take the opportunity to pick up my things. I do not like to leave Dean in a state, but there is no time left and I am almost out the door when he recovers his voice.

  ‘Tell us then when you will be back.’

  The vein in his forehead is bulging larger than I have seen for many a day, so I go over it one last time. I shall be forced to run the entire distance now, and Lord knows what a state I’ll be in when I get there. ‘I am travelling first to Invercargill, and I shall go straight to get the money.’ I am looking at Baby, though it is not his fault what parents he got. ‘If Baby’s father hasn’t posted it, I shall collect it there and then, and not be back before the end of the week. I’ll leave the child Carter at Gore, and then go on to Milburn for the baby Hornsby.’

  ‘What if the letter is gone already?’

  I glare at Esther. ‘Then I’ll be home Tuesday night.’ Quickly I peck Dean on his prickly cheek and stoop to do the same on top of Baby’s head. I take no notice of Esther. ‘Goodbye.’

  I am out the door at a pace before anyone can stop me.

  It has been many a year since Aunt Christina departed this life, God bless her, but it is of her I am thinking as I dodge my way through the crowded streets from Invercargill station to the central district. I could swear I catch a whiff of her perfume as I alight from the train, and a cab almost runs me down when I turn towards a voice I think is hers. I do not believe in omens or suchlike, but I am relieved to reach my destination.

  I pause to smooth my dress and compose myself before I push the door open and step in from the street. At the top of the narrow staircase I turn left to enter his rooms.

  Baby’s father is not a large man but thin and wiry, with small insensitive eyes. He comes bustling his way towards me. I note with satisfaction how beads of perspiration line his forehead. Quite obviously he does not want me here: his mouth twitches and the hairs within his nostrils quiver like long grasses caught in the wind. Not quick to hide his look of disdain, he is swift to usher me into the small side room. It would not do to be seen honouring a business transaction with a baby farmer.

  ‘Mrs Dean.’ His voice squeaks as he closes the door behind him. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  How different to his manner on a previous occasion when it was he with the burden of desperation. For it was he, I remind him, who arranged for the woman to come to me in the first place. I wanted no part in it, what with the new law and Rasmussen putting his big nose in where it is not welcome. But how persuasive a man can be when he wants something. Which is why, I suppose, I have his offspring in my home at this very moment.
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  ‘I have come to see whether or not you have posted the five pounds we agreed upon.’

  His top lip curls. ‘I said I would. Is that the only reason for your visit? You have come a long way, madam, just to ask me that.’

  ‘It has gone already?’

  ‘Not one hour ago. Now if that is all, you may see yourself out.’

  I swallow back my contempt. ‘Then would you, as a gentleman, see fit to consider an advance? You see I am in need of it, and it would save me the considerable trouble and expense of going back to Winton for the letter. Say, three pounds? You could deduct it from next month’s pay.’

  He is aware now he holds the upper hand and does not even try to hold back a condescending laugh. ‘Ah, Mrs Dean. That would give you eight pounds, would it not?’

  ‘Yes, but, as I said, next month you would pay me only two.’

  ‘I can do my sums, Mrs Dean.’

  ‘And if you would like a receipt, I should be happy to provide you with one.’

  He pauses. ‘Would you? How very kind. But, you see, I cannot do it. And if I could, I am not sure that I would.’ He smiles broadly. ‘Do I make myself clear to you, Mrs Dean?’

  It is very clear to me. A woman who could get a man out of trouble is of far more consequence than one who already has.

  ‘Is there anything more I can help you with, Mrs Dean?’

  I gather my belongings together and retrace my steps onto the street, cursing myself for proposing he might come to my aid.

  The sky has darkened since I went inside, and before I have walked clear of city limits I am wet with rain and the bottom of my dress is soiled with mud. It occurs to me I should return to The Larches without the child, and do away with the entire plan; but I have given my word and the children will surely be brought to meet me. There is nothing else for it but to walk the fifteen miles to Clifton, where I am lodging the night with my cousin Christina and her family. I lift my skirts and increase my pace in earnest. If I hurry I should make it before sundown. How pleasing it will be to take company with people who are happy to see me.

  The following morn is calm and clear, far warmer than yesterday and a generous amount more than can usually be expected in the South, a place often prone to cold winds that are not pleasant for anyone, let alone a woman carrying a bairn.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have anything to eat? A scone perhaps? Must you leave so soon? It’s but a short walk from here to Clifton station and the sun has not yet risen.’

  Cousin Chrissie stands on her doorstep, shivering with cold. Gone is the plump roundness of youth, replaced now with the narrow wizened look of her mother in later years. I shiver involuntarily at the thought of Aunt Christina and shake my head to allay the unease.

  ‘I will miss my train,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘Now, inside before you catch your death.’

  As I walk, the sun slowly rises, but it does nothing to warm my spirit. My bones are cold. Aunt Christina lurks behind every bush, in every shadow. I am near running to escape her by the time I reach the station and board the train.

  The track to Bluff runs alongside the bay, and as we rumble along I strain to see whether the ship carrying the baby has yet arrived. Relieved not to sight it, I settle back in my seat and close my eyes. Never before has the thought of Aunt Christina brought me such troubles. To think of her in times of hardship usually brings me comfort, not apprehension.

  From somewhere behind comes the startling yelp of a baby. Dear Lord, that reminds me — I must make time to collect some laudanum from the Bluff chemist before the return journey. A crying child is such an annoyance to other passengers; I simply cannot do without it. My head pounds heavily and I long for quiet. Perhaps I should mention laudanum to the mother down the back of the carriage. In fact, if her child doesn’t stop soon, I shall arrange to purchase her some myself.

  It is a little before half eight as I make my way from the train to Browne’s Boarding House, almost bent over with the pains from not having broken my fast. A young woman bids me good morning and tells me her name is Mary Browne. She is very pretty, with a rounded face and big eyes. She seems familiar to me, though I cannot recall where I have seen her before, or whether she would likely know my real name. I don’t announce myself as Mrs Grey for fear it may aid her memory; instead I hold out my letter containing the name of Mr Cox.

  ‘I wonder,’ I ask pleasantly though my stomach is in knots, ‘is the Manapouri in yet?’

  She looks out the window and down towards the harbour. ‘It’s just about in at the wharf now.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I say to her, coughing to cover the gurgling sounds of my innards. ‘I am meeting friends by steamer. Would it be possible for me to wait here? You see, I have travelled some distance and will soon be in need of refreshments.’

  She shows me into the sitting room. It is comfortably laid out and very modern in two tones of green, with a table and three chairs by the window and a bed by the far wall. A fire burns in the grate, and I remove my hat and go to stand by the hearth, praying it does not take them long to find me here, for I do not want to be in the midst of a meal when they arrive but I shall near faint if I have to wait much longer.

  Fifteen very lengthy minutes later, the door reopens and Mary Browne enters, followed by a woman and a baby. I cannot see much of the child apart from its red dress, but the woman herself has cold green eyes that narrow in on me straight away.

  ‘You are Mrs Grey?’ She hands me the letter.

  I am not sure whether Mary Browne heard her address me, but there is little I can do about it now. I nod, though I am somewhat confused. ‘I was expecting a Mr Cox.’

  Mary Browne makes to leave the room, but not before she shoots me a strange look.

  ‘My husband was … he could not make it, so I have taken his place. I am Louisa Cox. The child’s grandmother.’

  Only now do I look at the infant cradled in her arms. Mrs Izett was correct. She is a truly beautiful baby. ‘What striking blue eyes,’ I say as I rise to take her, ‘and with such dark hair.’

  ‘She holds a strong likeness to her mother.’

  I find this doubtful, as the woman in front of me does not at all resemble the child; perhaps they follow her husband’s likeness. Yet I nod agreement so as not to offend her.

  ‘Are you returning by steamer?’ I ask, hoping she will heed my hint. ‘She … the little one here will be fine.’ I realise I have not yet enquired as to the baby’s name.

  ‘Dorothy Edith —’ Louisa Cox answers my unspoken thought — ‘Carter.’

  ‘Dorothy Edith. What a beautiful name. She takes the bottle?’

  ‘No.’ Louisa Cox looks offended. ‘She will eat from a cup, as I.’

  ‘Yet she is so small and young,’ I say. ‘Ten months, am I correct? She must indeed be a smart girl.’

  The corners of the woman’s mouth lift slightly at this, but still she does not make to leave.

  ‘The baby will have a good house,’ I reassure her. ‘Plenty of milk, and lots to amuse her.’

  Louisa Cox frowns, then raises her eyebrows to suggest I know more than I should.

  I lower my voice. ‘I will take the baby to Mrs Cameron.’ But she continues to stare at me, so I add, nodding foolishly, ‘That is the house I referred to.’ It is not until she glances at the letter she has given me that I realise my oversight. ‘Mrs Cox, I have forgotten the correspondence I was to have brought you. Please accept my apologies …’

  Louisa Cox’s expression only confirms that that was all she should have expected of me.

  At last she stands and takes a lingering look at her granddaughter. I can see the woman is still in need of encouragement; it is not an easy thing to give up a child to a stranger. But I am expert at this. I begin to play with the baby’s feet. ‘What pretty hands and beautiful eyes you have,’ I coo, and the baby giggles.

  Louisa Cox swallows, and though her mouth assumes a grim smile, her eyes are moistening. She hands me a parcel, which she says con
tains the baby’s clothes, and with barely a backward glance she is gone.

  Dorothy Edith and I are alone for less than a minute before the door opens and Mary Browne returns. She registers the baby and her eyes widen.

  ‘Would you care for some breakfast, Mrs Grey?’

  It is another woman who brings my meal. She bears a strong resemblance to Mary Browne, only the gift of beauty has not been so kindly bestowed: her nose is more pointed, her eyes smaller and more stabbing. She places the food upon the table and announces herself as Mary Browne’s sister, Margaret. Although I am suspicious of her lingering presence, my hunger forces me to accept when she offers to mind the baby. She watches as I eat, and shortly asks me what has happened to the person who brought the child.

  ‘She’s gone back to the boat,’ I tell her, dabbing at the corner of my mouth with the napkin. ‘May I thank you for the lovely breakfast? I feel much better.’ I have not finished, but I rise and take the baby from her before she can question me further. ‘Could you tell me, is there a chemist shop at Bluff? The child has some sores.’

  ‘There is only one,’ Margaret Browne says, clearing away my tray, ‘occupied by Mr Froggatt.’

  Baby Carter is rubbing her eyes with her little fists. I hum to her a while, and after she falls asleep I lay her on the sofa and go out to tell Mary Browne that I have business in town but I will return soon and have left the child napping.

  My first call is to McGruar’s Drapery. While I make my enquiry McGruar sucks on his teeth, making them whistle like a canary.

  ‘I am very sorry, madam,’ he says, ‘I do not have any such fabric at present. Perhaps you would like to look at this instead?’

  It is a long, narrow shop, and I follow him past bolts of calicoes and printed cottons right to the back. Aside from a single fragment of sunlight that takes my surprise by partially blinding me, the place is altogether too dark. I squint at the oil cloth. I think it’s a dark green, which I suppose will have to do.